This Night
by Stellar Eclipse
Summary: They try so hard to hide what lies within, but the little things shine through regardless: shards of strength, weakness, loyalty, betrayal, and sacrifice...marks of a hero the worlds have forgotten. Cloud and Leon and Angst—yes, capitalized—for Staci.


_For Staci, written to "This Night" by Black Lab. Smooches, bb. I hope you like this._

_Disclaimer: dood, _fan_fiction. Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasy, and the characters and universes therein are the property of Disney and Square Enix. I receive no remuneration for this work; it is a parody and as such utilizes the Fair Use clause of the Copyright Act._

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He wanders the dark, empty corridors of the Underworld, waiting patiently–_impatiently_–to be called for the next of his never-ending battles.

He's been doing this for years, this pointless servitude. He's come to realize that he'll never be able to break free. The charade dissolves little by little every day and the burden gets harder and harder to bear, and he becomes more and more of everything he never thought he'd be. He can't even stand to look at himself anymore, can't stand to see the mark of his betrayal, arching proud and dark off of his back. It's always there, clawed and torn and mocking, irrefutable proof that he'll never escape this hell.

He moves slowly, a silent and solitary ghost tracing paths through the very veins of the Underworld, occasionally trailing one hand on the dank walls and wondering if Hell is really as cold as it feels to him. Hours and hours pass this way until finally he's summoned, a sharp pulse of burning ice and numbing heat that lances through his entire body over the span of a single heartbeat. He closes his eyes against the pain, and with a firm press of his lips, he shoulders his blade and departs.

His solid, measured strides eventually take him to a pre-designated spot in the wide, dusty coliseum, one that has become so familiar that he doesn't even have to open his eyes to know when he's reached it. When he does, his pupils react violently to the sudden, angry glare of the sun, and he winces and swiftly brings up the back of a gloved hand to shield them. He doesn't miss the omnipresent chuckle that always follows his helpless reaction, shallow amusement at his expense. That grating voice echoes in his ears, and his lip curls in a tiny snarl behind the shade of his wrist, but he doesn't allow himself to react further. It's all that he deserves. He's lost sight of the light and everything he's always fought for, and this is the price he'll pay.

* * *

This one's an easy kill, compared to some of the others. Ten minutes into the match, he's discovered and honed in on its one weakness. Every creature has one; sometimes more than one, as is his case, and that's partly the reason he's trapped here. Winning is all a matter of who figures it out first.

He roars and performs one final jump attack, blade glinting fiercely in the rays of the blinding sun before it sinks deeply into the bulky form of his opponent, and the beast goes down. There's a throaty growl of reproach and annoyance from his left, then suddenly his right—a failed attempt at intimidation meant to throw him off-balance—and the owner of that grating voice glides up to him with a scowl, flanked by two simpering henchmen.

He has half a mind to take his sword to the god, but the other, more sensible half reminds him exactly what happened the last time he tried that, and the time before, and the time before that. This is _his_ realm, and things will go _his_ way. He knows that too well by now, and so he shoulders his blade again and turns his face from the light, turns his back to the god. He closes his eyes and tunes out the affronted crescendo and the echoing jeers of the diminutive minions, and begins the trek back to the place he doesn't even allow himself to call home. A stationary vagrant.

He doesn't know why he keeps doing this, what he's waiting for, or if he'll ever escape. The only thing he's sure of is that he has no hope left, nothing to believe in, and no one waiting for him on the other side, so he keeps fighting on someone else's whim just to keep himself busy, to keep from thinking, because right now, it's the only thing he knows to do.

* * *

It seems fate is taunting him. He meets another like himself, days or weeks or months later (he doesn't even keep count anymore), coerced into training for a tournament more elite than all the others. They're to fight as a team, but first they're made to battle one another until anticipating one man's every move is instinct to the other, in the hopes that when they do take on the mysterious adversary chosen for them, said adversary won't be able to stand against their combined skill.

It's hell, once their training is complete. The practice matches are endless, and the enemies relentless, and they are allowed nothing but their steel and physical strength to get them through. No healing, no magic, no hope. When it's over, they're sent to the barracks just long enough to recover before the cycle begins again.

Somehow, he begins to find salvation through all this, in the eyes of the other. He's jealous at first—the other man doesn't seem to have been marked, not like him—but they're broken, too, those solemn blue eyes. They try so hard to hide what lies within, but the little things shine through regardless: little shards of strength and weakness, loyalty and betrayal, willing and unwilling sacrifice...marks of a hero the worlds have forgotten, stark and painful reflections of his own life.

"I have nothing to give," he says finally, turning to face his companion fully. It's the first time he's formed a complete sentence in what seems like an eternity, and the first time he's spoken to the man, directly or indirectly; cries of battle can hardly be considered a valid form of communication. His voice sounds strange, rough and hollow to his own ears.

Quiet consideration, then a slow sigh. The other bends to rest his weapon on the makeshift bed he's claimed, and when he turns back, he hears him speak for the very first time. "...I have nothing to lose."

_His_ voice is soft and deep and low, and the words resonate in his mind, drowning out the echo of his own listless thoughts. He closes his eyes, bows his head and turns his chin towards his shoulder, and his posture droops just a little with the weary breath he exhales.

Once upon a time, he was too proud to let someone comfort him, much less ask for it, but he's aware his body language does so quite succinctly, and that same battle-born instinct that makes them work so well together now draws the other closer to him, steps silent because the man knows he doesn't need to announce his approach; valor has given way to tired apathy, and he is far too worn to strike in his own defense right now.

An empathetic hand is placed on the opposite shoulder, and when there's no shying away, when the muscles beneath leather-covered fingers don't tense, the other rests his forehead there too, and lets out a soft breath of his own.

One is a puppet on invisible, unbreakable string; the other, merely a pawn. They're bitter, run-down and burned out, and still they wait, still they fight on, because right now, it's the only thing they know to do.


End file.
